Deal With the Devil
by erbby17
Summary: Horrified by the prospect of his brother's demise, Germany begs Russia for a way to save the dying nation of Prussia. But at what cost to Prussia?
1. the offer the fate

_A/N: Hey, y'all! I'm kind of surprised that I haven't posted this here yet, but this is what I wrote after Himaruya BASICALLY said Prussia now equals Kaliningrad in Volume 3. Or, at least, I saw it that way. And then I wrote this. Which will turn into a drabble-a-chapter type deal about Russia/Prussia during their "time together" throughout the mid to late 20th century. Can't really say there's no plot, but still, this is just small stories stringing along a vague concept of chronology. lol, that sounds weird. Anyway, please enjoy. Each chapter will vary in rating, so I'll probably keep this rated at M. Please enjoy!_

_And I own nothing. There are vague historical references tossed in this opening chapter. :D_

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"_Bruder_…"

Germany stared on into the dark room, its only inhabitant dying on the worn out cot. He could hear, feel, smell his brother's hitched breaths, the breaths of a Kingdom long dead. All that was left was the hollow shell of a man who only grew paler every time the sun set. Germany stepped inside, regret invading his pores the second his shoe tapped on the cold, cement floor. "_Bruder_," he repeated, watching as red eyes flickered dim before him.

"He will die."

Germany turned, surprised that anyone would bother to walk down this hall. Violet eyes smiled at him, a look the blonde couldn't stomach to trust.

"But you know this. It was your boss who dealt the first blow, _da_?"

Biting his lip, Germany turned to look onto his brother once more, that horrid feeling of guilt on his shoulders. "Yes," he struggled to say, tears daring to pour out from his tired blue eyes.

"And you did nothing." Russia sounded a tad more cheerful than was appropriate for the occasion. But he stayed at the doorway, never once entering the cold room.

Germany couldn't admit aloud that Russia was right, not when his brother looked like that.

"Will you do nothing today?"

A shaking hand to the cold one on the cot, Germany wanted nothing more than peace for his brother. But the thought of his inevitable, belated death…

Germany couldn't part from his own selfish wish, to keep his brother alive. But what good was that to Prussia?

"I can help you," Russia cooed at the doorway. "I can keep him living. And in much better condition than he is now."

He could almost feel the tears dissolve from his face, Germany's hope for his brother returning. He ran to the door, clutching Russia's coat, his hands shaking from a torrent of emotions. "Y-you…"

Germany tried his hardest to ignore that look in Russia's eyes, violet orbs that reeked of pity. They stung through Germany like a burning blade, but he had to keep Prussia alive.

"You will take my offer?"

"Yes…YES! Please! Anything…anything to keep him alive…"

Russia smiled and wrapped his gloved hands around Germany's jaw, cradling the nation's face in his palms. "We will sign Law 46 soon, Ludwig. He will die…"

"RUSSIA, PLEASE! SAVE MY BROTHER! Please…"

Violet eyes grew deeper and Russia placed a gentle kiss on Germany's forehead, sealing the deal. "It is done."

...

The wheels of the wheelchair creaked on the pavement, cracks endangering the vehicle's trip. "I swear, once I get out of this chair, I'm getting the fuck away from you, Russia," the former nation spat, embarrassed by his wheelchair-bound weakness.

"But, Gilbert, you still have so much energy to regain," Russia nearly sang, guiding the wheelchair through the zigzags of the broken street. "We are almost there."

"Almost where, asshole?"

"Kaliningrad."

The former German-state tilted his head back in confusion, unaware of that name. "Kaliningrad? What the fuck is that?"

"Your home, Gilbert."

The wheelchair-bound man grew more confused, previous conversations of his Cold War era home reeling in his mind. "I thought I was going to live in Berlin…"

"No. Berlin is part of East _Germany_. You will live in Kaliningrad."

"Yeah, but I thought I _was_ 'East Germany' or someth…"

The wheelchair stopped short, nearly propelling Gilbert from his seat. "No. That is Germany."

"But…"

"Gilbert. You are not Germany. And you are no longer Prussia. Prussia is dead. You are mine, now. And you will live in Kaliningrad."

Gilbert hated that phrase, _Prussia is dead_. Bullshit, Prussia was dead. He was still there. True, he was reduced to being pushed around in a wheelchair, but that was only temporary. Gilbert was sure to regain his status as a proud nation, and show all those Allied jack-offs just how dead he was.

"…or perhaps you will recognize it better as Königsberg, _da_?"

Gilbert's dimmed red-eyes widened and stared straight into the closed lids of Russia's eyes. "Wh-what..?" His body shook. Black spots disrupted his vision, only stopping when a gloved hand traced his neck and grabbed hold of it.

"You are mine, Gilbert. Königsberg is mine. And that is all that is left of you. Although, I'd hardly even call it you. The people here are Russian…"

The gloved hand tightened around Gilbert's neck, pushing it up for a poisoned kiss. But Gilbert couldn't resist, too weak to fight back. Or was that an excuse, to keep the horrid thought of being owned by Russia out of head? No, he wasn't Russia's property, he would never…

"Good boy," Russia said, pulling back and loosening his hand before brushing it though silver strands. "I will stay with you, of course, until you are well enough to travel from here to Moscow."

Gilbert nodded, against his own will. He wanted to spit, to kick that bastard and run back to Berlin, run back to Germany, back to his brother. But there was something keeping him from doing so…

"_D-da_," he responded, feeling his tongue tainted by that Slavic sound, just like his precious Königsberg, destroyed and rebuilt. For Russia…


	2. the bitter the sweet

_A/N: Another chapter that fluttered into my mind: depressing smut! Now, keep in mind that I'm only writing Russia this way because this is in Gilbert's POV, and we all now how he feels about him. So please enjoy._

_And disclaimer: I own nothing._

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The beads of sweat fizzled and burned on Gilbert's flesh; his whole body stung with the force of their electricity. The air was thin and chilled his lungs and veins with fierce cold, battling with the heat upon his flesh.

"Hmm, a little more towards me," Russia instructed, his finger leering Gilbert forward like a magnet.

Gilbert cringed, his body filled to the brim with the monster's abnormally large member. "W-well," he choked between gasps. "I'm trying."

"But not hard enough," Russia scolded with a smirk, waving that finger in disapproval, ghosting it over the tip of Gilbert's desperate erection.

_This fucking bastard_, he cursed in his mind, the little red ribbon below getting tighter with every swerve of his hips. Russia had hit that spot a while ago; Gilbert's movements only seemed to be working on him rather than the dominant one who lay on the bed, gazing up playfully at the former-nation's desperate attempts to please him.

Russia's finger traced up Gilbert's twitching vein, from the ribbon up to his seeping tip. "Look how selfish you are being," he taunted in a sing-song voice, resting his gloved hand on Gilbert's bruised hip. "Do not think you will get release first. You are working for _me_ right now."

"F-FUCK YOU," Gilbert cried in a mess of spit and tears, this unbearable tension about to burst every vein in his body. "I'm…m-moving as best as I can, now come already!"

Russia chuckled, his eyes a shimmering shade of violet. "Do it properly and I will."

A quiver threatened Gilbert's lips, his body crudely perched upon this bastard's hips, swirling and twirling in circles like a common street-whore. Of course, that is exactly how Russia referred to Gilbert, his status as nation long since demoted to enclave of the World's Newest Insane Asylum. This man had accumulated a disgusting amount of surrounding countries into his Soviet family, a tight-knit group of chronic twitchers. But Gilbert was somehow less than them and for some reason, closer to becoming "One" with the new Big Bad.

Slowly swallowing what little pride remained in his body, Gilbert put a bit more effort into his body's movements, however impossible he thought it to be. And without fail, his gentler hip swirls managed to get a peep of approval from Russia's mouth, his hands reaching up to clutch at Gilbert's sides.

"G-good job," he moaned, being so kind as to guide the ex-nation's body up along his length.

Gilbert tossed his head back, crying out from the new set of sensations that emerged from this new direction. His body slid up and down, aided by the Russian's tight hands at his waist, his body well too accustomed to its recent occupant. And with a few more proper swivels, that red ribbon unraveled along with all of Gilbert's seed.

Sweet release, a feeling he so rarely experienced anymore. Gilbert moaned, his body completely numb and covered in a film of sweat.

"You…did well, Gilbert," Russia said, lifting the spent ex-nation off him and sitting up to cradle the limp man in his lap, hands framing around his delirious expression. "I think it is time for us to go to Moscow, da?"

Unaware of the large nation's existence, let alone ejaculation, Gilbert's head moved gently in Russia's cupped hands, growing far too comfortable with their presence; why his lips moved right to those fingers for a kiss was beyond his comprehension in this current state. "Okay," he mumbled, crumpling into nothing in Russia's eager arms.

He shouldn't have been feeling the comfort of this man's hold, shouldn't have accepted the sweetness of Russia's lips on his tired flesh. Gilbert's aching eyes glanced down, watching that soft tongue lick over healing wounds from years past. Would this become customary, once in Moscow? Would he be holed up in the corner of Russia's room until hailed for sexual abuse? Other nations would be there, their eyes scanning him with pity; no longer a nation, now only a toy.

Russia's teeth nipped lightly at Gilbert's numbed flesh, twisting the pale skin between ivory blockades. The thought of Moscow pained Gilbert; how much farther would he be from…

"West," he choked out, clutching Russia's head to his chest, drowning himself in the slight sensations before losing himself to his indefinite loneliness.

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_Thanks for reading! :D_

_**~erbby**_


	3. the chilling the warm

_A/N: Another little chapter, a bit soon, but I think after the LAST one, something a bit different needed to be posted. So I wrote this. Please enjoy! I own nothing and there's some language in here._

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The chill in the air snuck passed the confines of Gilbert's scarf, chilling the albino despite his many layers. He sighed, well aware of how severe Moscow winters were, but he needed to get out of that house. The crying sister, the one with the dagger, the trembling trio; Gilbert didn't belong among the collective of Soviets. But his decision to brave the winter chill was a bit more suicidal than dealing with that Russian's "family".

Small mounds of snow bordered his chosen path throughout this barren part of the city. A few dead trees sat in the distance and Gilbert cocked his head to the side, curious to whatever was hanging from one. An old swing dangled from the tree branch, the rope well worn from weather. Walking up to it, he brushed his hand along the snow covered wood of the seat, nostalgia slipping past his gloves, into his fingers, and surging up to his mind.

_Push me higher, _Bruder_! _

"West," his lips mumbled soundlessly, his hand on the rope, tightening his hold around it.

How many years had he been bound to Russia and his Soviet Union? Had he forgotten the taste of the German language? Had he lost the name _Prussia_ and all the glory it held? He sighed and looked up at the branch, the two ropes splintering off into death. That's all he was, a dying string, hanging from Russia's finger. His fate was in that man's hands and one false move could send him plummeting into the abyss of nothingness.

"Gilbert, what are you doing here?"

He didn't want to turn his head, choosing not to acknowledge that voice. "There's just no getting away from you, is there…"

Russia's footsteps echoed in the crunching snow and once behind Gilbert, his arms wrapped around the ex-nation's chest. He brought his enclave in close, gliding his nose along the reddened shell of Gilbert's ear. "It is cold today; you should come back to the house."

Gilbert's lip twitched, his body closer to Russia's than he deemed necessary. "It's cold every fucking day, outside or not," he hissed, his grip on the rope spelling danger for the abandoned swing.

Russia didn't respond, his breaths soft and low in Gilbert's ear. "Why did you come out here?"

_Why did you have to follow me_, Gilbert shouted in his mind, not daring to speak it out since he already knew the answer. "I was bored," he whispered, small puffs of air barely lingering in the air.

The grip around Gilbert's chest tightened slightly, a kiss finding its way past the silver-haired man's scarf and onto his neck. "I get lonely when you leave, Gilbert," Russia said into flesh, his voice sounding oddly sad.

"Lonely? How the fuck do you get lonely in that house?"

There was another bout of vocal silence, Russia's body taking the chance to speak instead; his hand slid up Gilbert's chest and cradled his chin gently, moving his head for forced eye contact.

Gilbert wasn't prepared to see those violet orbs so dull in color, their power slipping away and replaced with a painful sadness. This couldn't have been Russia, this was a different person entirely, but regardless, Gilbert couldn't resist. He leaned in, his hand lifting to rest upon ivory hair and bringing two pairs of chapped lips together. Two small caves of warmth, trying desperately to fight the bitter cold; Gilbert could even taste a new flavor on Russia's tongue, one he drank up eagerly before stopping entirely.

He broke away from the kiss with fierce rejection. Bright red fires rose in his eyes, staring back at the childlike expression on Russia's face. What was this?

A sad smile cracked on Russia's moistened lips, his hand reaching for Gilbert's shaking one. "Let us go back," he said, turning around and walking towards the "madhouse".

Gilbert nodded, squeezing Russia's gloved hand and following his hunched form. Who was this person and why did they decide to take over Russia's body? Who would ever _want_ to do such a thing?

A blush settled upon Gilbert's chilled cheeks, and he squeezed Russia's hand once more, secretly hoping for a response.

Ivan squeezed back…

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_Thank you so much for reading!_

**__****~erbby**


	4. the sunlight the scars

_A/N: I started this chapter a while back and didn't do much to it. Just finished it tonight, so I apologize if it seems a tad rushed. I wanted to play with a few concepts and ideas in here. Please enjoy! And as usually, this series and the characters are not mine.

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_

Soft white light blinded Gilbert awake, the morning sun glistening upon the snow and reflecting past the window and on his face. He groaned, tempted to roll away from the light, but he knew what he'd see on the other side. Of course, sleep was what the silver-haired enclave desired most at the time and he turned his body away from the sun, his tired eyes flickering open to Russia's sleeping form.

Gilbert was sure the previous night would never end; but even a nation's body had its limits, and once Russia hit his, Gilbert's work was done. "Bastard," Gilbert said in a yawn, a small pang lingering in his weakening body.

Falling into comfort on the bed, Gilbert was prepared to return to sleep, but the sun shimmered off Russia's chest, only partly covered by the blanket. The former nation cocked his head to the side, noticing the pale tracings of scars on the Russian nation's form. He never had the chance to nor cared to give a careful glance at Russia's body, but when the normally-threatening man lapsed into such a state of vulnerability, Gilbert couldn't resist. He sat up, resting his body on a propped elbow. Ghosting his hand over the fluttering flesh, Gilbert chanced a finger to glide over the variety of scars on the Soviet nation's chest. Granted, Gilbert had his own, but there was something fascinating about seeing Russia with scars; one would think that nothing could pierce this man's flesh, but here was proof against that misconception.

Gilbert's thin fingers glided over jagged lines and odd curves, counting ribs and absorbing warmth, until a tight grasp at this wrist interrupted his exploring.

"What are you doing," Russia asked, his eyes shut tight and his voice threateningly low.

His red eyes were fixed on the scars and Gilbert answered simply, "Just looking at your scars."

The grip around Gilbert's wrist loosened, the strong hand once wrapped around it now deciding to rest on the pale man's thigh. "Oh," Russia said, shifting slightly, his thumb rubbing the tattered flesh beneath it.

Gilbert ignored Russia's touch and merely focused on his task at hand, trying to count the scars that littered Russia's body. They painted a story of war, of strife, of time. He could almost place what each one represented, but cared little, just wanting to imprint the concept of Russia with scars in his mind.

"You have them, too," Russia said, his hand now roaming along Gilbert's torso. "They look so cute on you," he said with a small laugh sneaking past his words.

But Gilbert was lost in his exploration, paying no mind to Russia and fingers following the hills and zigzags of the white and pink lines on ivory skin. Even the glide of Russia's rough hand across his chest couldn't shake him from his trance, until that hand grasped at his neck and pulled him down for an unfitting, gentle kiss.

His hand falling limp on Russia's flesh, Gilbert fell into the rare sweetness of Russia's tongue; for once, there was a lack of dominance. It was just a kiss, a kiss that tossed Gilbert into another trance.

Soon, Russia was propped above him on the bed, his position allowing the sunlight to reveal more secrets on the larger nation's body.

"You can look later," Russia whispered over lips, his hands gripping tightly at his enclave's wrists.

For once, Gilbert let the grasp on his wrists tighten. If it meant he would see more of Russia's vulnerability, he would do anything…

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_Thanks so much for reading!_

**_~erbby_**


	5. the present the past

_A/N: Number one, I'd like to apologize for the recent deletion of a story after its "update". I'll explain fully in my profile for those who were confused.  
Number two, I'm not necessarily "back". I've been inactive due to computer issues, summer vacation, working, and cosplay making, but I had a slight urge to write and this was the result. I'll try to write a little bit more in the next month, before school starts, but for now this is what I have. Please enjoy.** Nothing is mine**._

...

"What's happened to you?"

Every night, those words haunted Gilbert in his sleep, in a voice unmistakably familiar as his own. He opened his eyes, though he was still asleep, lying still on those stained white sheets.

His vision was blank, nothing but darkness and a few twinkling lights that may have been stars.

"What the fuck has happened to you? How could you let this happen?"

"I had no choice," he said in a voice much more hoarse than the one speaking to him.

"What do you mean, no choice," the voice said, its form materializing as his former self, draped in a war jacket from 200 years passed. "You're Prussia. Or at least, you were. Now what the fuck are you?"

Gilbert took in a long, shuddering breath, trying to resist the truth. "Kaliningrad."

A breathy laugh responded, its form crossing its arms and glaring down at the figure in the bed. "Pathetic."

Silently, Gilbert agreed, his eyes locked on the floating reflection above him, though so starkly different from his current self. There was color in his face, which scowled so much of arrogance and pride. His body was thicker, more built, and exuded a shimmer of military glory. Of course he'd look pathetic now. "But there's a lot that's happened in these 200 years, asshole," he spat, smirking at the figure's red glare. "And there's a lot that neither you nor I could have controlled. Like this."

"It would've been better if you just died, rather than living as someone else's toy. Especially his. That's low."

Gilbert laughed and sat up, his face inches from the transparent illusion in his mind. "Yeah, maybe it is. But I've been toyed with before, and I at least know how to survive."

"You call this surviving?"

"With him? Yeah, actually, I do."

The stillness of the night ushered in a bitter silence, Gilbert's apparition gently fading. "You've grown soft," it said, a quiver on its lips. "For him."

Gilbert turned, and saw the sleeping form of Russia, vulnerable as he had been the night Gilbert discovered his scars. "Yeah," he said, his mind absent of thought, of purpose. Maybe he had. But it made sense, he was essentially a part of Russia now. That's why he had no room of his own in the house, unlike the other Soviet states, all separate, but together. Individual, but one. He lacked the former, and represented the latter.

He turned back, his head now against his pillow on the bed. "Are you going to leave, and stop mocking me?"

But the illusion was gone, vanished from sight. Gilbert's eyes were closed, he was asleep, but a single word slipped past his numb lips, "Never."


End file.
